LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf _.U-?-1-6' 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SONGS OF y EN ICE 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ROBERT LOUDOUN. 



And I have said and I say it ever, 

As the years go on and the world goes over, 

'Tweje better to be content and clever 

In tendifig of cattle and tossitig of clover. 

In the grazing of cattle and the growing of grain, 

Than a strong man striding for ivealth and gain; 

Be even as kine in the red-tipped clover. 

For they lie down and their rests are rests. 

^Arizonian. 




CLEVELAND, O: 

William W. Williams, 

mdccclxxxv. 






Copyright, 1885. 
By WILLIAM W. WILLIAMS. 

All Rio;hts Reserr<ed. 



TO 

MY FA THER 

WITH DEEP AFFECTION, 

I DEDICATE 

THIS EARLY OFFSPRING 

OF THE MUSE. 



CONTENTS 



PRELUDE. 

SONGS OF VENICE : 

The Serenade 13 

The Dream 18 

A Reverie 21 

The Gondolier 24 

Thou Bride of the Ocean 27 

She Sleeps Upon the Sea 28 

Sibylline 30 

POEMS OF LOVE : 

Anna Belle 36 

Daphne.... 39 

I Would be Free 5° 

The Fountain of Youth 52 

'Neath the Willows 55 

Drifting 60 

A Portrait 63 

Longing 65 

A Greeting From the South 68 

Birds of Night 70 

Faded Roses 74 



O CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

SONNETS : 

Hope 79 

Hellas 80 

Hellas 81 

Hellas 82 

Aphrodite 83 

Virginia 84 

Virginia 85 

montecello 86 

Chippewa 87 

Chippewa 88 

Chippewa 89 

Salutation 90 

Constancy : 91 

A Tribute 92 

You Bid Me Sing 93 

The Past 94 

Beauty 95 

Resolution 96 

Hebe 97 

Hebe 98 

No Love is Lost 99 

Love Immortal 100 

Emerson 101 

MoiR.*: 102 

Youth's Love 103 

Flight of Years 104 

Epigram 105 

Apollo Scorned 106 



CONTENTS. 7 



PAGE, 

SYLVAN: 

Elywood 109 ^ 

Gathering Arbutus 116 

The Advent of Summer 122 

The Poet's Path 123 

Nature's Freedom 125 

Morn 127 

Nature Healeth 130 

Light 134 

OCCASIONAL PIECES : 

Titus Livius— A Requiem 139 

Ambition '. 14S 

The Fallen 146 

Alice 151 

Memorial Day 154 

Byron i57 

Banquet Song iS9 

NORMIA 161 

Thanksgiving 163 

The Fate of Tasso , 165 



PRELUDE. 

If in this early flight of tuneless song 

I leave the beaten track, where oft and long, 

The feet of countless pilgrims trod before, 

And roam through meadows, by the shadowy shore 

Of woodland streams, o'erarched by lacing limbs, 

That e'en in midday fiercest sunlight dims; 

Where cattle stray in low, cool alder swamps, 

Drinking from weird and willowed river-damps ; 

By mountain tarns and their steep cataracts 

Far-hiding where no vulgar eye attracts ; 

In caverned rocks, deep-sounding to the tread. 

Where Echo leads, forgetful of all dread 

Mysterious sounds that follow in her way, — 

Till lost, bewilder'd, far from genial day, 

I fain would hasten to the light again. 

Content to walk by down and reedy fen, — 

Seeking no more the mysteries that woo 

The curious mind away from nature true 

But to perplex and taint with vague distrust, 



lO PRELUDE. 

The free-born spirit that would 'scape its rust, 
And sing in simple song the thoughts that rise 
From feeling deep or forms that charm the eyes — 
Perchance a handful of wild flowers I'll gather, 
Heedless of color, perfume, odor: rather, 
A mingled chain of daffodils and clover. 
Chosen at random by a thoughtless rover, 
In idle moments loitering through the fields 
In summer weather, caring for naught that yields 
More than the pleasure of the passing hour 
And twilight skies that call him to love's bower. 

I would not more; ambition's siren voice 
Falls harsh and hollow with no charm or choice, 
But hither go where fancy leads the way 
Though all condemn my wanton minstrelsy. 



Songs of Venice, 



THE SERENADE. 



'Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
By distance mellowed o'er the water's sweep. 

— Don /tian. Can. I. 



'Twas the midnight's soft hour, and the silence of 

Venice 
Unbroke was by tumult, the sounds that dismiss 
From the mind its soft musings that flow on like a 

river, 
Unchecked in its channel in beauty forever; 
While each bend and each sway in the course it pursues 
Gives new pleasure, new transport, new beauties it 

strews 
'Long the fens that we follow. 

'Twas the midnight's soft hour; 
Far away in dark Santa Maria's high tower 
The bell tolled for mass, and the monk counted low 
His beads in dull silence: the chants' solemn flow 



14 SONGS OF VENICE. 

Disturbed not his prayers, for the shades down in 

Hades 
Were as far from his thoughts as the damsels of 

Cadiz. 
The lights at long intervals gleamed on the water 
But palely, for through the deep sky ever brighter, 
The stars shone, and moon in its fair waxing 

crescent, 
Silvered turret and temple and palace and casement 
With strange light. 

The splash of a light guarded oar 
Alone broke the stillness the bells broke before — 
But had ceased — as the boat softly stole through the 

shade 
Unreached by the moonlight that sought to invade, 
And near now approached to the place where his 

love 
Slept in beauty: unknown was the passion which 

strove 
In the breast of the gallant who glided beneath 
Her high, open window. The last carnival wreath 
Still hung from the balcony, drooping and sere. 
Where soft hands had pressed it in leaning more near 



THE SERENADE. I 5 

To the bright laughing throng in their close crowded 

boats, 
Filled with youth and with pleasure. 

Now softly the notes 
Of his prelude responded the touch of his fingers, 
As expectancy dwells on the music that lingers 
A moment behind it, till full on the ear 
Blend the voice and the lute-chords, sweet, plaintive 

and clear. 

I. 

O, fairer far than sirens sleeping 

Upon the silent, waveless ocean, 

I know my dearest love now waking. 

In every charm, in every motion; 

Will she not come to me, 

I plead now so earnestly ; 

Come ere my true heart with fondness is breaking? 



11. 



Does she not list to the song I'm singing ?- 
She dreams in her soft and silken bower, 



l6 SONGS OF VENICE. 

Will she not heed the love I'm bringing? — 
I sigh for her smile like a drooping flower; 
Can she now refuse it me, 
Know not my heart's sympathy ? — 
Ah, faintly these chords can tell of its yearninj 



III 



Shall beauty sleep while love is pining, 

And tells its woes to listless air? 
Shall beauty dream while love Is chafing, 
Unnoticed by the loved and fair? 
Swiftly I glide away. 
Love disdained cannot stay, 
Ah, harsh are the chords when the spirit is sinking. 

Scarce had the last sounds of his quivering lute 
Died in silence, his soft, pleading voice again mute, 
When a white robed figure stole quick to the window 
And taking one glance at the gallant below, 
Pushed aside with one hand the antique portiere, 
With the other — her arm, soft, dimpled and bare 
Thrust beyond, but in shadow — threw in his boat 



THE SERENADE. I 7 

A handful of roses ; a red one, which smote 
His cheek as it passed, her warm lips had pressed : 
And the kiss in that moment she gave him unguessed, 
Was not wasted, for still in the fragrance he found, 
And the touch, soft caressing, more joy than is bound 
In roses alone, though from deep Persian skies 
Drop the dew on their petals that flash like the eyes 
Of the winsomest maidens that wander at eve 
Through the palm-groves of Emir. 

He could scarcely conceive 
Such fortune was his, such rich Argosies, 
In love's own sweet language ; and looking up sees 
Her white arms, a gleam of her bosom the shade 
And the curtain concealed not ; a smile that repaid 
All his warmest devotion ; yet the vision had fled 
Ere a moment her beauty his charmed sight had fed. 



1 8 SONGS OF VENICE. 



THE DREAM. 

She is dreaming-, dreaming sweetly, 
That soft siren of the islands, 

On the breast of Italy, 

On her dying fame-washed strands. 

See the moon-light gently floating 
O'er the wave and broken walls, 

At some gloomy shadow gloating, 
On the Doge's lonely halls. 

Silent save the whispering night-wind. 
Creeping 'long the silv'ry streets. 

And its murmur soft confin'd 
Where the wall the water meets. 

Catch her accents, she is dreaming, 
Yes, again she's with the past. 

In the days when fame was streaming 
O'er the seas from every mast. 



THE DREAM. 1 9 

Now her domes, her gilded steeples, 

With their former lustre shine, 
And they dwell — the ancient peoples — 

In this home of beauty's shrine : 

When the Orient had yielded 

All the splendor of its arts, 
And its gold and pearl had circled 

Pride and pomp in all her marts. 

See yon pageant floating proudly. 

Torches gleaming on the waves. 
And the people cheering loudly 

Hail it with the captive slaves. 

For her warriors now are bringing 

Spoils of victory once more. 
And a conquered crown they're flinging 

At her feet, and robes she wore. 

Nations all are homage paying 

To this empress of the sea, 
And her charms are now subduing 

Each to her own mastery. 



20 SONGS OF VENICE. 

And to-night the triumph crowns, 
As her fleet returning home, 

Greets them with gay banquet rounds 
'Neath the Doge's palace dome. 

They yield, the far-off — but she's wakin; 

Dreary, sad and desolate, 
Bowing servile to a king. 

Weak, submissive to her fate. 

Ah, why should beauty ever be, 
The Nemesis of its own fall, 

And humbled pride and heraldry 
Survive alone the death of all ? 



A REVERIE. 21 



A REVERIE. 

Beneath the portals of Saint Mark I stood — 

That wondrous rehc of a perished art — 

And watched the sun set hke a crimson wave 

Bathe all the ruins of this noiseless mart 

With a new splendor, dim and spirit like, 

Until the city seemed an apparition 

Of her dead, lovely self, rising from out 

The waveless waters with her ancient pride, 

Mocking imagination ; as a love 

Long lost will haunt our dreams in fairest shape. 

And leave us wretched ere the morn has come. 

The coast-line waned, then faded from my sight, 

And all was dim and formless far and near ; 

And by and by the great moon rose above 

The broken housetops, and once more the streets 

Were filled with pleasure-loving, thoughtles throngs 



22 SONGS OF VENICE. 

Light gondolas, and the more stately barge, 

And barks with many colored sails that lay 

Motionless upon the water, their canvas drooped 

About their masts that the still evening stirred not. 

And as a I listened, lo, a song broke forth — 

A single voice, the words inaudible 

By distance, and that mellow tongue that hates 

All harshness — soon another caught the strain 

And bore it on, and then another answered ; 

And thus the night wore on, so musical 

And sweet, so like her former days of joy, 

That for a while I could not but forget 

That Venice was a slave, and many stripes 

Had bruised her fair, soft shoulders, till the marks 

Spoke their own tale of woe, and cried for pity . 

A dark robed figure, veiled and lowly bent, 
Brushed by me and my dreamy reverie broke. 
I watched her enter in and kneel down close 
Beside the altar on the cold, bare stone. 
And deep sobs shook her bosom as she poured 
Her sorrows in the ear of Him who hears 
The lowliest, for she had lost her son, 



A REVERIE. 23 

Whom -she had loved more than her waning Hfe. 

I turned away and felt my eyelids fill, 

And like the exiles from fair Babylon 

In a strange land, I wept and could not sing; 

For I remembered all that she had been. 

And never more could be, while time shall last. 



24 SONGS OF VENICE. 



THE GONDOLIER. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 

— Childe Harold Can. IV. 



Can Tasso's songs be silent now ? 
Me thought the gondolier would vow 
Eternal homage to their flow. 



'fc>- 



Yet, as he guides his graceful bark 
Through noiseless streets he sings, but hark ! 
His thoughts are distant, gloomy, dark. 

He sings of Venice in other days ; 
Her power, her beauty fills his lays, 
Nor of his age he tunes the praise. 

He sings in snatches, plaintive, low, 
Nor merriment his accents know, 
Yet music's saddest charm they show, 



THE GONDOLIER. 2$ 

And like a phantom gliding onward, 

How little does his boat accord 

With its gay freight and winsome lord. 

\ 

As floating 'neath the arches crumbling, 
And ruined palaces now tumbling 
Into the sea with speedy humbling. 

Ah, who can tell the sad reflection 
Swift-crowding on the mind's dejection, 
The softening power of recollection ! 

For she to him was like a maiden 
Whom youth and gayety did gladden, 
Nor care nor sorrow ever sadden. 

Who dwelt in mirth's seductive rounds. 
And followed pace with music's sounds, 
Where dance and luxury abounds: 

Until o'erpowered with joy and sleep. 
And glee no more her revels keep, 
She sinks to rest upon the deep. 



26 SONGS OF VENICE. 

Ages of glory have passed away, 
The gilded boats with color's play, 
Yet he alone survives the day, 

And in his sable home abides — 
'Neath the Rialto still he glides— 
The graceful gallant of the tides. 



THOU BRIDE OF THE OCEAN. 2*] 



THOU BRIDE OF THE OCEAN. 

O, city of Adria's murmuring sea, 
What fond recollections cling ever to thee ! 
O, sad are the thoughts thy beauty dispelled 
Thou home of the lovely where art long has 
dwelled ! 
Still sleep in thy beauty wrapped ever in fame, 
O, whisper, breathe gently thy ever loved name — 

Still sleep, sleep gently on — 
I sigh not for fortune, the world though it blame, 
I love thee thou bride of the ocean. 



28 SONGS OF VENICE. 



SHE SLEEPS UPON THE SEA. 



She sleeps, she sleeps upon the sea, 

Beautiful Venice alone, 
Dreaming of happy days when free, 

Sighing for pleasures gone. 

Hushed are the waves, her pillow light, 

The wind has borne afar — 
From Afric's coast, spray gleaming white- 

Upon her silent bar. 

In sadness, now, she lightly sleeps, 

Her mantle shorn of beauty. 
Her tresses scattered and she weeps 

Lamenting her decree. 



SHE SLEEPS UPON THE SEA. 2g 

Soft ripples from a distant shore 

Fall lightly at her feet, 
Her rest is sacred, and her lore, 

Shines though at setting, sweet. 

O, is she weary resting there 

In silent loveliness, 
Or is she thinking of the rare 

Fame of her past greatness ? 

Lone, wrapped in beauteous mystery, 

Nor waking with the day, 
She'll ever sleep in her frailty — 

For fled is her life's ray. 



30 SONGS OF VENICE. 



SIBYLLINE. 

From earliest youth, when first the pictured page 

Chained my young eyes continual, 
Thy domes and spires would all my thoughts engage, 

And catch my fancy in their thrall; 
Charming the sight like unbound maiden tress 

When gold-hued, glistening in its fall, 
Half veiling charms when wanton looks transgress — 

Dream city of unearthly loveliness ! 

And wert thou like the Cyprian goddess born 

Of sea-foam's softness mid the isles — 
Drifting to Italy in the sweet morn — 

And gifted with the secret wiles 
That slave all hearts that dare to look on thee. 

With passion's glance, that knows no liberty, 
And clings to thy fair palace piles 

As to a love begun in infancy ? 



SIBYLLINE. 3 1 

What though thy walls are blackened now with time, 
Thy power usurped by foreign hands, 

Can aught rob thee of thy own page sublime, 
Thy glory give to other lands? 

The heart shall be thy sacred history, 
And fill thy annals with such poesy 

As springs from love in its fair prime — 

Weaving romance from thy deep mystery. 



And if the years deal with unhallowed harshness, 

And the blue sea rise o'er thy ruin, 
Thou shalt not lapse into forgetfulness. 

Or future homage fail to win ; 
To pass from sight is not oblivion 

Save when no worthy deed has e'er been done. 
Nor arm been raised amid the din 

Of earth's dissensions, quelling strife begun. 

Thy beauty cannot with thy forms decay ; 

It is a thing apart from substance, 
And will defy time and its sure essay 

To bury all 'neath its advance, 



32 SONGS OF VENICE. 

As long as art, romance and poesy 

Shall o'er our minds and hearts hold tender sway;' 
And when these can no more enhance 

Our lives, 'tis fit that all should pass away. 



Poems of Love, 



As long as passion has a part in life, 
And pride and envy, jealousy and strife, 
Usurp the higher instincts of the heart. 
In vain no poet sings his humblest part. 

Life is illumined by the glow within ; 

Love is that light, and rythmic words have been 

In every age the noblest form it wears ; 

Nor priest, nor creed, such joy the soul e'er bears. 



36 POEMS OF LOVE. 



ANNA BELLE. 

Bright as the moon-light when it sleeps 

Upon the star-lit, tranquil deep ; 
Soft as the evening when it creeps 

From shadowy regions of the East ; 
Fair as the dawn when lingering first 

Upon the topmost mountain peak ; 
Sweet as the songs that ever burst 

From happy hearts their love thus speak. 

A form voluptuous, yet light 

As mist dispelled by morning ray, 
And hair that seemed its beauty bright 

Had caught, then lingered there to play 
Amid the shower of gold that fell 

Upon her neck of driven snow, 
And swelling breast where ever dwell 

In purity, love's warmest glow. 



ANNA BELLE. 37 

No wild gazelle upon the hills — 

Or bending down with timid grace 
Upon the bank of forest rills 

To drink — when it espies the face 
Of some lone hunter of the wood 

With levelled gun, never displayed 
More eloquence of single look 

Than in her soft blue eyes arrayed. 

Languidly beautiful, yet shone 

With all that fascinating charm 
Which marked the glance of hers alone, 

The bravest heart they could disarm 
If but a single glance were given — 

And at her mercy then it lay — 
For Eros had his arrow driven, 

That she with his pierced heart might play. 

You should have seen that form where grace, 

In all its beauty seemed to dwell 
Immaculate, for that famed race 

In sunny Orient can tell 
Of no one fairer when the shades 



38 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Of evening gather o'er the wave, 
And on the Ganges, India's dusky maids 
Come forth, their wondrous forms to lave. 

No more you wondering ask me why 
My fondest love to her I give, 

Or why the passion does not die ; 
As well attempt, then bid it live. 

The fragrance from the rose to separate. 



DAPHNE. 39 



DAPHNE. 

Deep in a cool and lone Thesslian wood, 
So still and voiceless in its every mood 
That contemplation came a guest unbid 
And fashioned forms from mortal vision hid; 
The god of light and song at evening roved 
And woke the measures that his fingers loved, 
Since caught by man and fashioned at his will, 
To charm all hearts and coldest natures thrill. 

Slow were his steps, for thoughts of deep intent 
Seemed fetters in the path his way was bent ; 
The twittering birds, the startled stags' swift flight 
Aroused him not nor claimed his downward sight ; 
The trampled flowers died sighing to the sound 
His wandering fingers heedlessly had found. 
Like wind o'er the ^olian strings at night, 
Stealing through lattice in a shy affright, 
Murmurs weird melody in some high tower 



40 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Where Persian maid sleeps in her star-lit bower, 
And hears not its complainings while she dreams 
Of love and beauty that all real seems ; 
So he while musing on his mission high — 
How he had come from fair Olympus nigh, 
To man from gods, and all that he had given 
To elevate the mind and heart earth-driven — 
To banish ignorance and fill the soul 
With perfect light that knows no human goal, 
And leaps beyond the confines of dull sense 
In realms ideal to find recompense. 

His thoughts were of earth's creatures, but no part 

Nor portion of them he ; in lofty art 

And poesy and song, alone he stood 

Supreme conservator, and yet he would 

That he might win the undying love of her 

Whose home was in the ever shadowy river. 

Where the Erotas flows through Tempe's vale 

Where naught molests or could with harm assail 

The sacred muses in their varied rounds 

Of mirth and song, while wood and hill resounds 

With music wild and choruses led by 



DAPHNE. 41 

Terpsichore, when rays of daylight die 
Beyond the purple-wreathed Cyclades, 
And soft delights give pause to stern decrees. 

These Daphne saw when lured from her retreat, 
All wondering at the merry, cadenced feet, 
And sounds more soft and witching than the shell 
Of Nereus in his deep, dark ocean cell. 
Wakes for the nymphs. 

One morn before the light 
Had risen high, full on his startled sight — 
Tripping o'er dew-gemmed flowers — this being came, 
But for the moment ; ere her sweetest name 
The god pronounced, she fled through glist'ning leaves 
Of low-hung branches that the vision cleaves 
Not ; lost she was to his wrapt, eager sight 
And ravished heart, and standing in this plight, 
Afar he heard her rustling steps away. 
Die fainter and still fainter in the gray. 
Dull mists of morn. 

Ah, me, how little seemed 
His arts divine when she for whom he dreamed 



42 POEMS OF LOVE. 

With ceaseless yearning, never moment stayed 
When to his eyes her form was once betrayed ; 
While disappointment kindled that hot fire, 
Which, ever burning with renewed desire, 
In naught is quenched except satiety — 
But such a joy to him could never be. 

In words like these, complaining oft had spoke : 
O, Daphne, fairest maid that ever woke 
The slumb'ring passion in a god-like heart, 
Gladly would I e'er share thy lowly part, 
And leave the portals of Elysian light, 
If thou stay with me, loveliest earthly sprite — 
So shy, evading, vanishing away. 
Fleet as the golden shafts of dying day, 
When night broods sullenly above the world 
And all is shorn of light, in darkness hurl'd ; — 
So in my soul when thou forsakest me. 
Pining, sighing, for thy sweet company. 

But still she would not hear his amorous prayers, 
Nor stay her steps, lest falling in the snares 
Of love's entanglement, no more returned 



DAPHNE. 43 

She with that peace by maidens higher prized 

Than else in Hfe — her perfect chastity ; 

For Eros had ordained unfeehngly 

That she should never know of passion's thrill — 

Its swift and fatal thraldom of the will 

That yielding once, forever lost restraint 

O'er mad desire of which to taste is taint. 

And now this roused love unsatisfied, 
Intuitive had led him there beside 
The stream where fair young Daphne first had given 
That deep delight, which since, could know no heaven 
But her embrace. Ah ! melancholy fate. 
That should for this unyielding maid await, 
Far from all help, and was there nothing left 
But she should be thus of her life bereft ? 
The god has paused, and list ! what melody 
Is this that greets his senses? Can it be 
Of earth, that one of god-like power should seem 
All uncontrolled as waking from a dream ? — 
A dream in which one clasps a shadow-form. 
And kisses lips imaginate, in warm 
And wild, impassioned, fancied ecstacy ; 



44 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Then quickly waking to reality, 
Finds bending o'er his couch, gazing the while, 
That being who had blessed with sweetest smile 
And warm caress, his visioned happiness. 
So he when roused from meditativeness, 
Dream-like and real to deluded sense. 
Found Daphne there — and all the vague suspense 
Of love ; the image that his mind had wrought 
Of her unseen, lay shattered, and seemed naught 
Beside her matchless, glowing self incarnate. 
While all the air around now seemed vibrate 
With melody ; sometimes in murmurs lost 
Too faint for eager ear though list'ning most 
Attentively; sometimes in wild, weird swells, 
And echoing like laughter through the dells 
Where naiads sport and splash the cooling spray 
Of mountain streams in their light, wanton play. 
And there she sat upon the shady bank 
Close by the river; near and far the rank 
Wild flowers grew in sweet profusion, and 
These she had gathered, clasped within her hand. 
Mingling their fragrance, and their colors twined 
Together indiscriminate. To bind 



DAPHNE. 45 

Her hair — save with the flowers — no thougrht had 

given, 
But framed her face hke plumage of the raven, 
Falling in ebon coils beyond the curves 
Of her small, tapering zone, which naught confines 
Now in her still unseen abandonment — 
Engaged the while in innocent content. 
Fallen was the snowy peplos from the swell 
Of her full, maiden breast ; as careless fell 
Her form upon the grass ; free were her feet 
From sandals, and her limbs seemed fair and fleet 
As Dian's when the chase her thoughts engage. 
And love knows not her tender vassalage. 
Sometimes she bent low to the mirrored stream. 
Narcissus like, and saw that heavenly dream 
Of love — herself — glassed in the silent surface. 
But she knew not that it was beauty, place 
Was all to her, and untaught pleasure, joy 
That springs, when life knows no alloy 
From nature's freedom. Had she known the forms 
Shadowed beneath her were the fatal charms 
That lured the sun-god to her lone retreat. 
Love would have answered beauty, and defeat 



46 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Would not have crowned the passion that had driven 
His acts to violence, if pitying heaven 
Unheeding her, has staid the kindly power 
That changed the maid to an undying flower. 
Soft : now, while she with arms upraised and hands 
Clasped o'er her head ; see, through the rippling bands 
Of her dark hair, the pearliest shoulders gleam ; 
The smiles that play upon her red lips seem 
Of beauty the perfection ; but as free 
From passion as the flower that lonely, 
Amid the Alpine height's eternal snows, 
Blushes and fades though no eye ever knows 
Its presence, and no sweet and pure delight 
Gives its faint fragrance — for a touch were blight. 
All this she saw as swift the placid stream 
Mimicked each movement; who could ever deem 
She felt no thrill, nor knew the power that dwelt 
Within herself, nor all the ill she dealt 
Upon her lover most divine. 

But hush ! 
A step steals softly through the grasses lush, 
So stealthily, that she with play absorbed 



DAPHNE. 47 

Knew not the god looked on her form disrobed. 

And still she heard not till the careless strings 

Of his harp, fatal, branch-caught, loudly flings 

Its harshest dissonance upon her ear. 

O, who could tell the terror, deadly fear, 

That held her, though unwilling, to the spot, 

And all but her nude loveliness forgot? 

She could not flee thus, but her prayer was heard 

By her who guardian is, and never barred 

Her ears against cries, of dangered chastity : 

O, save me! Dian save me! who can stay 

The god's strong passion and the roused wrath 

Stung by disdain of qualities that hath 

All minds led captive ; for no fault of mine 

Has forced me now, this lofty love decline. 

What punishment is this that ever closed 

The springs of feeling while my beauty soared. 

Surpassing mortals, till the envious god 

Of love sent this dire vengeance, and has trod 

All passion from my heart ? I cannot love, 

'Tis hateful ; though it seems none ever strove 

Against this high divinity. Ah, wo 



48 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Is me, who cannot this sHght gift bestow, 
And yielding, stay my fate ! 

Thus piteously 
She cried, in wild, despairing agony, 
And raised on high her supplicating eyes 
Pleading relief from the unclouded skies. 
Ere the last words had left her pallid lips. 
The tender leaves of laurel from the tips 
Of her soft fingers, sprang ; while from her feet 
The grappling roots shot downward as to meet 
The earth's moist mold ; and what had lately been, 
Of all earth-born, more nearly the akin 
Of lovely Aphrodite, now assumed 
The vernal form that her sweet life entombed 
Forever. 

Then, with feelings, deep, intense, 
The god made vows that future recompense 
All time should pay her, and the leaves henceforth 
Should crown alone the man of highest worth. 
The scaly trunk then fondly did embrace. 
While pitying tear-drops bathed his upturned face, 



DAPHNE. 49 

And Daphne wept a fragrant shower of dew 
To see the grief that would her fate undo. 
Alas ! Now saved she was, but martyr still 
To modesty and virtue, yet such ill 
Were better far than life with shame's hid face 
And youth's light merged in dark disgrace. 

Now as I ponder on this story told, 
The mist that gathers o'er a fable old 
Seems rising, and I read a deeper sense 
Hid far beneath this softest color, whence, 
The old mythology has often wove 
Its tales of passion and undying love. 



50 POEMS OF LOVE. 



I WOULD BE FREE. 

Turn not on me thy wild, wide eyes, 
I know the magic of their glance, 

O, veil thy bosom's gentle rise, 

And free me from this charmed trance! 

The night wind never slept so still, 

Nor blossoms breathe such perfume here 

What power is this that chains my will 
And leaves me helpless, thee when near? 

Why should I chide my truant heart 
When beauty's face is formed so fair? 

The smiles that from thy red lips start. 
Can slave my mind and hold it there. 

Touch but thy lips? It cannot be! 

Too deep the thrill, too sweet the joy, 
O, tempt me not my vows to flee! 

Such bliss would all my peace destroy. 



I WOULD BE FREE. . 5 I 

Turn not on me thy wild, wide eyes, 
For love must follow where they stray ; 

I would be free as Orient skies. 

From clouds that follow passion's sway. 



52 POERIS OF LOVE. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 



For who hath grieved when soft arms shut him safe, 

And all life melted to a happy sigh, 

And all the world was given in one warm kiss ? 

• — The Light of Asia. 



Young love is the Lethe of sorrow and sadness, 
She smiles and the hot tears forget their quick flow ; 

Deep wounds are oft healed by the sunshine of 
gladness, 
Then shun not this balm from a bosom of snow. 

The knights of Old Spain sought the Fountain of 
Youth, 

In lands far from home where summer unending, 
Blushed ever with flowers whose perfume, in sooth, 

Was as sweet as the dew on the jasmine sleeping. 

But in vain was the search, and they perished at last ; 
The secret they knew not, for youth does not flow 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 53 

From the founts of a land where by chance we are 
cast, 
Though it sparkle and cheer like old wine in its 
glow. 



In the bowers of Hispania her maids are awake, 
The orange trees breathe their soft perfume around; 

Light guitar and castinet harmony make, 

And the gay dance is tripped to voluptuous sound. 



The rich wine flows free, but the lips that it stains 
Shame its red hue in depth, in warmth and in glow ; 

What more could ye want, when worn with war's 
pains. 
Than to rest by these fountains and all care forego? 



Ah, here are the fountains of youth that ye lost, 
In your own sunny land ; not in forest and wild, 

Where man hath not trod, yet bitter the cost 
To pine with that thirst but forever exiled ! 



54 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Not in everglades bright with rare flowers, is foand 
The draught that shall youth's immortality give; 

Go seek it where love and light pleasure abound, 
And innumerate years in one hour you will live. 

It dwells in the roses on beauty's soft cheek. 

In the sigh from the bosom, and flash from the eye; 

Repose here, O, tired ones, no farther need seek. 
These fountains flow ever, and ever are nigh. 



NEATH THE WILLOWS. 55 



'NEATH THE WILLOWS. 

A SUMMER IDYL. 

L 

'Neath the willows by the river, 
Where the shadows darkly lie, 
Where the dark and gloomy shadows 

Never die ; 
Where the sunlight's sheen and quiver 
Always enters an intruder — 

With a sigh; 
There the red-wings pipe in summer, 

Swinging Hghtly to their cadence, 
Far above the drowsy water's 
Faintest accents ; 
There the naiad's fairest daughters 
Lave and sport with strangest laughter's 
Soft allurements. 



56 POEMS OF LOVE. 



II. 



Meadows sweet with purple clover 

Sloping to the water's edge, 
Downward to the scented thyme 

And graceful sedge; 
Always beck'ning to the rover, 
Sighing to the plaintive plover 

In the hedge ; 
Come and lounge beneath the willows, 

I will sing while you shall stay; 
Toil not in the burning sunshine 

Of the day ; 
Here are cool, refreshing shadows, 
Here are purple, perfumed meadows, 

Come and stay — 

Come and stray, 
Where the star-eyed daisies smile, 
Where the cat-bird calls the while — 

'Neath the willows. 



NEATH THE WILLOWS. 57 



III. 



Drifts a boat a-down the river, 

Underneath the hanging willows, 
Light oars break the shimmering surface 

Into billows ; 
Soft and undulating ever. 
In the falling twilight, never 

Sweeter song rose ; 
Song with two low voices blended, 

One with dreamy echoing flute-notes, 
Th' other deep and grand and solemn 

Upward floats ; 
But in harmony they ended, 
Separate, yet together blended 

From their throats. 

IV. 

Words like these were borne to me 
'Neath the shadows listlessly: 
Come, when the daylight dies, 
Under the star-lit skies, 



58 POEMS OF LOVE. 

This is love's own hour, 
Who could resist its power? 
Not I, not I, while youth shall last; 
While passion burns no joy is past. 
With silvered locks and age, 
Pleasures, no more engage ; 
Let us love while we live, 
What more can earth give? 
Then come 'neath the stars on the river's tide. 
We'll gather the lotus and sing as we glide ; 
And, O, the wild rapture — my darling, my bride — 

To clasp thee again, 
To clasp thee and love thee forever my own, 
While life shall remain — 
While life with its rosiest chain 
Weaves our hearts into one on Hymen's soft throne. 



V. 



Dies the song's last words in the distance- 
Fades their forms in gray and twilight ; 

Thus their lives drift on together 
Glad and bright ; 



NEATH THE WILLOWS. 59 

Caught in fancy's web of chance 
On this river of romance, 

Free from night ; 
And each holds the other's heart 
Captive as its dearest part. 

VI. 

Truth to me all this had seemed, 
'Neath the willows I'd but dreamed, 

Lounging there this summer reverie, 
Pictured pleasures I ne'er deemed 

Could for mortal ever be — 
Songs and scenes too sweet to last — 
Dreaming, thought I held them fast. 
Waking, found them ever past. 

And I alone 'neath the willows. 



6o POEMS OF LOVE. 



DRIFTING. 



We are drifting, love, apart, 

As the ebbing waters flow 
Backward from my lonely heart, 

Leaving all my thoughts aglow 
With the sands of recollection ; 

And the shores are desolate 
Where the tide of hope begun. 

Broken now by storms of fate. 



O, could I but span the years 

Gone since first as friends we met. 

With such bridge as mem'ry rears 
O'er some chasm of regret. 

When I feel the sad conviction 



DRIFTING. 



Piercing like a poisoned dart, 
And I hear the murmured diction- 
We are drifting, love, apart. 



Drifting, drifting, surely, swiftly, 

From the shores where love has dwelt, 
Happy, free and thoughtlessly. 

On that sea the mind has felt 
Sweep in surges o'er the past, 

'Till its brighest memories 
All are carried with the last, 

Into depths the soul ne'er flees. 



Lingers there not. love, one moment 

That the heart can still hold dear. 
Neither tainted by lament 

Nor the blight of doubting fear — 
That amid a world of care. 

Like a flame in deep recess. 
Lights for awhile with dying glare 

Darkness it would fain depress ? 



62 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Yes, above all life's allurements 

Shines the light of other days, 
Flashing brightly through the rents 

Caused by thought where e'er it strays ; 
Yet there comes when hope looms darkly 

O'er a world where joys depart, 
Echoes from the past so dreary — 

We are drifting, love, apart. 



A PORTRAIT. 63 



A PORTRAIT. 

Oft as I look upon this face, 

A thousand joys my mind recalls ; 

Sweet, happy moments that embrace 
Years in their singleness — enthralls 

My feelings with love's lightest chain, 

Which tightly binds with willing pain. 

Here I can view that sweetest smile 
Which ever won the hearts of all, 

And often helps mine to beguile 

Its sadness when a sigh would fall — 

That flash of sunshine which dispells 

The ebon clouds where doubt oft dwells. 

The soft gold falling round her brow, 

In wavy ringlets unconfined, 
Marks but one charm youth's beauty now- 



64 POEMS OF LOVE. 

In all its lovliness resigned — 
Would add to innocence and grace, 
Twin virtues of that fairest face. 

That form to me, soft Aphrodite, 
With her magic girdle bound, 

Rising from out the Grecian sea 
Had circled her slight zone around, 

And that enticing power had given 

Which now to her my heart has driven. 

Yes, e'en though years had passed away 
And this fond gift had ne'er been mine, 

Ah, well could I recall the day 

When love and life dwelt e'er with thine, 

For now thy form more fair than art, 

Shall live forever in my heart. 



LONGING. 65 



LONGING. 

I am sad to-night, my darling, 
Weary, and my soul rests not, 

For thy form haunts all my dreaming. 
Visions throng me unforgot. 

Eyes with tender passion beaming. 
Half betray the minds desire. 

True and constant without seeming. 
On thy shrine Love lights his fire. 

Dark misgivings crowd the mem'ry, 
Hopes and fears each in their turn 

War for the ascendency, — 

Still my heart for thee must yearn. 

What though cruel disappointment 
Crown at last each dream of bliss. 

Shall a thought of harsh resentment 
Give thy lips a Judas kiss ? 



66 POEMS OF LOVE. 

No, the world, though stern, unfeeling, 
Weaves {he lie in truth's fair guise, 

I shall ne'er by double-dealing 
Hope to win the humblest prize. 

Should the vilest tongue malign thee, 
Spurn it with a high disdain. 

Truth shall triumph and assign thee 
All that worth and virtue gain. 

Youth denied its spring-time pleasures. 

Love forbidden cannot die ; 
These, the world's supremest treasures, 
Will surmount adversity. 

Let us fill the foaming goblet, 
Drink to all the dear, dead days. 

And we'll pledge to ne'er forget 
Joys that brightened all our ways. 

Friendship clasped the hand of Fancy, 
Gave no thought for future years ; 

Heedless though that grasp should bind me, 
Will it end in smiles or tears ? 



LONGING. ^^J 

Though to-night I'm sitting lonely, 

Dreaming of the happy past, 
Phantoms of the future show me 

All the joys that wait at last. 

** Love is enough," my heart is saying. 

Why rebel against decree ? 
Life can own no truer swaying, 

And my soul still yearns for thee. 

Then my heart forget your sighing. 

Love will ever seek its own, 
And the years though dark and trying 

Will for all their ills atone. 



68 POEMS OF LOVE. 



A GREETING FROM THE SOUTH. 

When e'er I think of thee, my love, 
As evening woos the summer sky, 
In vain my burning heart can prove 
Its yearnings save with lonely sigh. 
O, say, shall I tell thee the day will soon come 
When I'll meet thee again in thy own loved home, 
And clasp thee again to my bosom so true ? 
But, O, for tonight, love, adieu, adieu ! 

The river flowing t'ward the sea 

Forgets too soon its mountain home, 
But as I farther stray from thee, 

My thoughts, my dreams to thee still come. 
O, could I but see thy dear form once more. 
And feel the soft light of the eyes I adore ; 
O, what could e'er drive me again far and wide 
When to live in thy love is worth all life beside. 



A GREETING FROM THE SOUTH. 69 

Let hope's balmy touch brush the cares from thy 
brow, 
Like a lover's caress when the soft curls stray, 
And I'll love thee as fondly as though I were now 
By thy side, darling Vera, forever to stay. 
Yes, yes, I will come ere the roses shall fade. 
And if still not to claim thee, the vows that were 

made 
I'll renew with devotion, and all that the heart 
Can give to its idol, when long drawn apart. 



70 POEMS OF LOVE. 



BIRDS OF NIGHT. 
I. 

O, dreary birds of night, 

Mid storms on gloomy wing, 

Whither your lonely flight? 

What thoughts your wild cries bring ! 

From frozen rivers drear, 
. To summer climes you go. 
Where Winter comes not near 
And wild-flowers ever blow. 

My thoughts are borne with thee 
Mid clouds of darkness and doubt ; 

To that land of sunshine they flee, 
They dwell on the storms without. 

How you, O, birds, recall^ 

Sad recollections, sweet, 
As you battle the storms that enthrall 

And hope never wanes with defeat. 



BIRDS OF NIGHT. /[ 



II. 



Years, long years ago, when shone 

Gay youth, a tiny figure stole 
Silent, radiant, all unknown, 

And claimed a place within my soul. 

She was so young, so pure and fair, 

So shyly beautiful and bright. 
That one harsh breath could turn the rare 

Soft sunshine of her life to night. 

And yet she knew it not through years, 
Knew not her love like thistle-down. 

Borne on the whisp'ring, morning zephyrs. 
Had lodged within my heart, nor flown. 

The little wanderer had found 
A home, a resting place secure. 

Where love and hope in one were bound, 
Nor separation could endure. 



72 POEMS OF LOVE. 

Yes, ever there she has remained, 

Like dew that cheers the drooping flower, 

And has for Hfe a lustre gained 

Unknown without affection's bower. 



III. 



What though the wild-birds scream to-night, 
Their harsh and weird notes of woe ; 

What though within a pensive plight 
My mind is carried as they go ? 

'Tis only this, that they recall, 

A love that's stronger than my life, 

And their strange cries seem like a pall 
That heralds death of hope, and strife. 

And yet I know there is no trust, 

No love more pure and true than hers — * 

My Edith's — though the years still thrust 
Me from her smile, and bring their fears. 



BIRDS OF NIGHT. 

No more I hear the wail of winds, 
The cries of wild-birds hurrying on ; 

Lost in love's reverie nothing binds 
The spirit that would clasp its own. 

And still the big drops ceasless beat 
Against the casement, and the trees 

Moan piteously amid the sleet 

That falls from black and boreal skies. 



74 POEMS OF LOVE. 



FADED ROSES. 



SONG. 



The roses are sweet though they're faded, 

I would not fling them away, 
In my love's fair hair they were braided, 

She gave them at parting today. 

With their pale leaves I weave with quick fancy 
The rapture one moment could give, 

When the waltz-music sounded so dreamy, 
And life seemed all rythm and love. 

Then her head rested close to my shoulder, 
With its gold-waves and roses entwined, 

O, the madness their odor breathed ever, 
Like poppies distilled o'er my mind. 



FADED ROSES. 7$ 

And I press to my lips the droop'd petals, 
And think of the pleasures now past, 

When the nights all seemed bright madrigals, 
Nor doubted such joy could not last. 

Shall summer when winter has fallen, 
Never gladden the days that are dark ? 

Shall the days that are happy and golden 
Ne'er illumine the days of dull work? 

Who would dash down the wine-cup impatient, 

And shatter the crystal unfilled ? 
tiasthe draught not been drunk with enjoyment. 

While eyes glanced and bosoms were thrilled ? 

The waltz will out live its last cadence, 

Though the ball-room's deserted and still. 

And the pressure, the beauty, the movements. 
Long recur our soft reveries to fill. 

Never slight the perfume of dead roses. 
Nor the fragrance of wine that has glowed. 

The sweetest of earth e'er reposes 
In memory's fancied abode. 



Sonnets, 



TO ATHENA. 

what is writ, is writ, 

Would it were worthier. 

— Byron. 



SONNETS. 79 



HOPE. 

As when misfortune groping in despair, 
Touches the hand of hope, and once again 
Feels sure and safe in all it could attain, 
So you, sweet friend, have led me upward, where 

All seemed chaos, every path a snare, 

And bid me trust again, and woke a strain 
Long silent in my heart, free from all pain. 
Till the lax strings again to strike I dare. 

Deep feeling courts not words, nor gratitude 

Expression ; yet, perchance, thine eyes can read 
More than is writ, and see a striving here, 

For that which is not reached, or feebly sued ; 
If aught is best, think that the flame was fed 
From thy pure shrine, I claim no portion, dear. 



80 SONNETS. 



II. 



HELLAS. 



I see upon the towering, marbled height 
Of Athens' glory — the Acropolis — 
A form majestic, grand and Jove-like this. 
Amid the temples and the fanes of light. 

That gave to Greece her prowess and her might 
In arms and art ; victorious Salamis, 
The Phidian wonders, the Arcadian age of bliss, 
That from the world forever took their flight. 

I see the rude, barbaric warriors mount 

The sacred hill, their hands no mercy know — 
The priests out driven, the vestals violate. 

The city given to plunder's dire account — 

All lost, save fragments that through ages glow 
With light divine, nor time obliterate. 



SONNETS. 



III. 



HELLAS. 



Delphi is desolate ! No more shall sound 
The rythmic oracles that told the fate 
Of men and nations, pride and power and state, 
A.11 humbled in the dust ; nor scarce is found 

A trace of what shall be to ages round 

Wonder of wonders. The earth can find no mate 
For thy blind, wand'ring bard whose songs so great 
In every tongue, in every heart resound. 

Thou art not dead, O, Hellas ! Life like thine 
Unto thy race is a rich heritage ! 
Sappho still sings ; Anacreon's lyre of love, 

Tuneless through ages, still echoes chords divine ! 
Thy sculptured forms, fill yet a nobler page 
Of that proud history time cannot improve. 



82 SONNETS. 



IV. 



HELLAS. 

O, could the shades of thy dead past assume 
Their god-like forms, and attributes of power 
That rescued beauty from her lustful dower; 
To Priam's city placed the torch of doom — 

And flame and war filled foes with hopeless gloom — 
Greece would be free in that same day and hour ! 
Eros, alone, smiles in his sunny bower, 
And blights the manhood that he should illume ; 

Grim Mars is dead; Apollo is no more; 

The Wingless Victories that crowned the Capitol — 
The trophies thy immortal valor won— 

Have crept abject, not flown from off thy shore ; 
All these have gone, and nauo^ht remains or shall, 
While foreign yoke rests on this land of sun. 



SONNETS. 83 



APHRODITE. 

Not by ignoble worship at the Cyprean shrine, 
Nor fawning at the feet of beauty's queen — 
Though never lured she with such tempting mien — 
Can true ambition ever hope to shine 

Upon the tablets of the Sacred Nine : 

Stern sisters they, with face and brow serene, 
Who own no half devotion ; it must wean 
The world and the soft breast where pleasures 
twine 

Their rosiest garlands with seductive smile, 

Till youth forgets — though dreams he sweetest 

there. 
And fancy builds in clouds its lofty towers — 

Lost is the power to act ; manhood the while 
Forsakes him, and the visioned fame so fair. 
Bursts like a bubble mid these wanton hours. 



84 SONNETS. 



VI. 



VIRGINIA. 



Land of my birth ! with trembHng hand I twine 

These homely wreaths to place upon thy brow! 

Ah, small the honor I could bring thee now — 

Thy errant son — by aught that I enshrine, 
Though all the power of every age combine 

To pour through this my verse's sluggish flow ; 

The past has filled thy annals with a glow 

Time shall not dim though all should rival thine ! 
O, from this deep, lethargic slumber rise ! 

Shake off the shackles that would drag thee down ! 

They futnre yet shall glorious be and proud 
Even as thy past ! Ope but the closed eyes ! 

Lo, Nature gives thee all ; no part has flown ! 

Put regal garments on, cast off thy shroud ! 



SONNETS. 85 



VII. 



VIRGINIA. 

The blow that broke the Afric's galling chain, 

And raised him from the serfdom where he 
wrought, 

Has not loosed thine, the slavery of thought ; 

Its swift wheels never can be stayed again 
While progress holds the lash ; why not be taught ? 

Why still refuse the lesson thy blood bought ? 

Dwell not upon the past, such act were vain ; 

What can it bring thee now, what e'er attain ? 
Forget thy pride ! It only can degrade, 

Unless it serve as impetus to deeds 

That emulate the great of other days. 
The present calls thee, all thy latent aid 

The nation waits to add to her great needs, 

And haste the glory that thy sloth delays. 



86 SONNETS. 



VIII. 



MONTECELLO. 



I stand on hallowed ground ; there is not here, 
Within this wide domain historic, found, 
A spot more sacred to the pilgrim bound 
For liberty's most reverenced shrine and dear — 

Save one. Mount Vernon, resting ever near 
The blue Potomac. Dense the hill is crowned 
With the venerable oaks that shade the mound 
Where sleeps the friend of man who knew no fear. 

The soft June morn rests on the peaceful valley; 
It is a glorious prospect ! Far away 
The purple mountains and the welkin blend ; 

Earth may have fairer scenes — though few they be — 
But the proud world can boast no son to-day 
More worthy of its homage or his end. 



SONNETS. 87 



IX. 



CHIPPEWA. 



Sitting alone within the shady wood 

I watched the sun go down beyond the lake — 

• A scene of such sweet calmness it could wake 
Melody from hushed lips — and such a mood 

Stole o'er me there, gazing upon the flood 
Of roseate, golden light that seemed to break 
Upon the water, that no art could make 
More lovely in its every change that woo'd. 

The trees upon the distant, fading shore, 

And sloping meadows glowing with their wealth 
Of purple clover still uncut, were all 

Reflected in the changeless face it bore ; 

The twilight fell, and with redoubled stealth 
The shadows crept from out the nightly pall. 



88 SONNETS. 



X. 



CHIPPEWA. 



Ling'ring, I watched the moon's pale crescent rise, 
Shrouded in amber mist, above the trees ; 
I could have wished them ever, moments like 

these. 
When the tired heart reads in the starry eyes 

That gaze upon him, hints of the infinities, 
And then will mount superior to decrees 
Of flesh, and earth's desponding tendencies — 
Accepting all, nor humblest will despise. 

The lights began to glimmer through the grove. 
And then, from the pavillion, softly rose 
Orchestral music ; fainter I could hear 

At intervals, the sounds of feet that love 

Harmonious movements, and delight that knows 
No joy more sweet, no pleasure half so dear. 



SONNETS. 89 



XL 



CHIPPEWA. 



Musing, I heeded not the hours flew fast, 

Nor cared ; it seemed ail one could hope or wish ; 
And yet, sometimes, soft o'er the soothing hush 
Of this sweet reverie, there would steal at last, 

A longing vague, that whispered of a past, 
Completer happiness, with luring sound, 
Till I forgot the beauty spread around, 
And all but this, the lonely, sad contrast. 

But hush ! See, through the woody vista trips 
A white-rob'd figure, yet with feet so light 
That scarce a leaf stirred along her way ; 

A hand steals into mine ; warm lips meet lips — 
A thrill — a joy ! — Lost was the beauteous night. 
The stars faded, music vain discordancy. 



go SONNETS. 



XII. 



SALUTATION. 

To you who with unfeigned friendship strove, 
And kind endeavor, my lone life to cheer 
When home was distant with its memories dear, 
And every pleasure truest freedom gave, 

Where mountains vied in blue the ocean's wave, 
And the Potomac, calm and crystal clear 
Flowed 'neath high piny cliffs where eagles rear 
Their fearless young, and I as free to roam. 

I miss the mountains now, I miss the love 

Of those with whom my earliest years were spent ; 
But when I find staunch friends, as I have found, 

Where lewd suspicion makes of truth a slave. 
And slander's tongue to every ear is bent, 
I gain new courage for the day's dull round. 



SONEETS. 91 



XIII. 



CONSTANCY. 



Can we be false to one another, Love, 

When all the world seems soulless, and of stone 
The hearts where tenderness should live alone; 
And in their petty strife the good dissolve 

That should ennoble, not degrading prove ? 
How small the compass that confines the tone 
Of their pent lives — the natures that disown 
All human harmony — discordant grown 

By their own hate and venomed jealousy, 
Fling open wide the Janus-gates of strife, 
And pitying Peace forever driven away ! 

No, Love must bind with truest constancy, 
The wounds that silent grieve away the life, 
And thus defeat will mock the spoiler's play. 



92 



SONNETS. 



XIV. 



A TRIBUTE. 



What shall I give to thee whose form, whose soul, 
Whose beauty soft as twilight dreams of love 
Filled with the beings of some sphere above, 
Impells each aspiration t'ward its goal ; 

Restrains me when the fiercer passions roll 

Within my breast, and every good can prove — 
Ambition, hope — all that for which I strove 
To raise my life and form a perfect whole ? 

For thee I tune my long neglected lute, 
But strive in vain to sing becoming praise; 
And O, how poor such homely chords must seem, 

For thy charms make the strings forever mute, 
And dull, and soulless ; and these simple lays 
Are but the echo of that twilight dream. 



SONNETS. • 93 



XV. 



YOU BID ME SING. 



You bid me sing : can broken heart-strings thrill 
With rhymed words and soft, caressing songs — 
Low murmured love — which to the god belongs 
Whose blinded sight can see no eyelids fill 

With sad, salt tears and spirit-breaking ill — 

When every pulse-throb but recalls my wrongs, 
My withered hopes, the joyless nights day brings, 
And drives all harmony far from my will ? 

Ah, Love, there was a heavenly time to me, 
When first I saw thy beauty in my dreams, 
That shed a radiance o'er my darkest days; 

Then I beheld strange melodies in thee, — 
Faintest, intangible, unearth-born forms — 
Songs that no mortal pens for human lays. 



94 SONNETS. 



XVI. 



THE PAST. 



Come to me, Love, and let me kiss away 
The cares that rob me of the smile that erst 
Did greet me, long — so long ago — when first 
At eve we walked beneath the silvered ray 

Of stars mysterious ; and for the day, 

No thought would take, if love's unsated thirst. 
But for an hour were slaked in streams that burst 
From deep, full hearts, where feeling has its sway. 

I look upon the past — which is not past, 
Or ne'er can be while memory still is true 
To its glad days, and peace which comes no more — 

With longing that with every change must last, 
And dwarf the pleasures that the years shall strew 
Along my path, though brightest hues they wore. 



SONNETS. 95 



XVII. 



BEAUTY. 



Beauty, I know not what thou art, nor care ; 
Demon or god, alone I worship thee ! 
And helpless own they lordly mastery. 
Yet this I know, thou art supremely fair, 

Making all pale beside thy radiance rare ; 
Teach me thy secrets, I thy slave will be, 
Renouncing all if once thy form I see, 
Yet such a boon no mortal hopes to share. 

I saw a face that the Greek gods might own 
With pride, so pure and placid in each line. 
And calm and fair as Psyche ; then, again, I turned 

And looked ; lo, all had fled ; even cold as stone 
It seemed, and soulless ; yet, I still seek thine, 
Following a fantasy, perchance, though warned. 



96 SONNETS. 



XVIII. 
RESOLUTION. 

Life is a troubled sea, and restless, so 

Despair oft comes, and hope lies but a wreck 
Of bitter aspirations, that bedeck 
The shores of desolation and of woe, 

Where late the buoyant, laughing flow 
Of spirits ran, and swept away all thought 
That in our lives this darkest color wrought. 
And like a mourning mantle weighs us low. 

Is this man's end, to sink? His destiny 
Demands an effort worthy of the name. 
To which posterity can point and say ; 

Here was a man who fought the hard decree 
Of fate unflinchingly, victorious came 
From each fierce battle, with an added ray. 



SONNETS. 97 



XIX. 



HEBE. 



O, sprite of beauty flitting through my 'dreams — 
Sweet Tantala — I e'er could fondly fold 
In warm embrace thy fairy, wanton mould ! 
To kiss thy taunting lips so tempting seems, 

That I would brave the sacred, sylvan streams 
Where Dian laves — tho' who so brave, 
Upon her naked loveliness untold, 
Once gazing, loses life's dear flame. 

So, Actaeon-like, would I surrender all 

If to thy bower my footsteps I could speed, 

And drink deep draughts of love from thy sweet lips 

Where none could hear our sighings softly fall — 
Mingling with fragrance from the flowery mead — 
While joy from every fount new pleasure sips. 



98 SONNETS. 



XX. 

HEBE. 

The liquid languor of thine eyes, infinite 

In change, and playful, deep as azure ocean ; 
Soft as the hyacinthine-perfumed lotion 
That steals our senses in a may-time night ; 

Or like the violet's more modest fright 
Hiding amid the grass in shyest notion — 
So art thine eyes to me with every motion, 
Shedding or shutting out their subtle light. 

Thrilled as I gaze, no mortal power could bind 
Me like their siren, silent playfulness. 
That seems to draw and hold me like twin stars 

At which we look till dazzled and quite blind, 
Striving like old astrologers to guess 
What horoscope aw^aits our sinking fears. 



SONNETS. 99 



XXL 



NO LOVE IS LOST. 

No love is lost though it sleep on forever 

In some shut breast, sighing the while it sleeps, 
Yearning for joys some other always reaps; 
Fleeing like fragrance the touch to the sense would 
deliver ; 

And inarticulate, complaining never, 

In endless dream Endymion-like, that steeps 
Existence all in bliss, but never leaps 
Within the wave of passion's restless river. 

Though saddest heart should weep my years away 
And broken vows be all that's left to me, 
I know my love will live and love again 

When nature shall dissolve in voiceless clay, 
And be a portion of infinity. 
Undying but beyond all mortal ken. 



lOO SONNETS. 



XXII. 



LOVE IMMORTAL. 

I know my love shall never fade and die 

And sink like flowers that blush but for a day, 
Lost to all sense, forever past away 
Nor having aught of color or of beauty — 

Ephemeral things, true-called of human frailty 
The emblem. This I feel and always say; 
My love immortal is, and so shall play 
A part in lives unborn, unknown to me. 

O, sweet consoling thought ! That though my love 
No echo finds in a harsh world of doubt. 
And never feels the sympathy it yearns, 

That, Phcenix-like, I know 'twill rise above 
Decay of matter, and chains doubly stout. 
And clasp the form for which it ceasless burns. ' 



SONNETS. 10 1 



XXIII. 



EMERSON. 



Behold, even in this scandalous, Sceptico-Epicurean generation, 
where all is gone but hunger and cant, it is still possible that Man 
be a man. — Carlyle. 



He was a man ; and of that high and noble state, 
That pure simpHcity, seeming most near 
Divinity — an essence of his clear 
Unfeigned philosophy — and in each trait 

N earing the true ideal that must await 
The ages still unborn, ere it uprear 
Its image as a guide to those who hear, 
But feebly understand his mission great. 

Nor since those days when in the Attic groves, 
Or by the cooling streams, resting at noon. 
The old philosophers of Hellas sought 

For truth untrammeled, none but he has thrown 
Such light along this path where seldom roves 
The bravest foot, for else to him was naught. 



I02 SONNETS. 



XXIV. 



MOIRAE. 



O, Clotho, backward turn thy rapid wheel 

Which bears me on through time ignobly spent ! 
The golden sands by hand infinite lent, 
Have darkened by a touch unknown to weal, 

Or aught of joy that life of fame can feel. 
A tide of woe now covers all, and rent, 
The spirit, with its weight of conscience bent 
Bows low, this burning chastisement to feel. 

And thou Atropos, with the scale of time 
Still held aloft in wavering fitful hand — 
The fate of mortals and their destiny 

To weigh impartially — now in my prime 

Thy doom delay, or yet with grave command 
The brittle thread is broke, the spirit free. 



SONNETS. 103 



XXV. 



YOUTH S LOVE. 



When Love first dwelt in Eden's fragrant bowers, 
Untainted yet by act or thought profane — 
Free as a bird ere yet by hunter slain, 
Mounting to heights beyond recurrent showers — 

Where innocence beguiled the happy hours 
With sweetest trust, no care, but to remain 
In confidence secure, the world's disdain, 
I knew the bliss where time nor fame e'er towers. 

To thee I turn like one who's wandered long 
In distant lands and many a pleasure known, 
And drank the fragrance of enticing rounds 

Till joy had weary grown with its own throng 
Of happiness ; remorseful and alone, 
I haste return to feel thy soothing bonds. 



I04 SONNETS. 



XXVI. 



THE FLIGHT OF YEARS. 



O, how this troubled wave of changeful years, 
Swift bear us on its gloomy, moaning breast, 
From childhood on to manhood, without rest 
And ofttimes hope ; and dark, perplexing fears 

Guard every step as our too willing ears 

Heed faintest callings with our youthful zest, 
Till sparkling pleasure is the goddess blest. 
And deep remorse ends life, and penal tears. 

Shall it be so ? or shall the nobler man 
Assert its high supremacy, and urge 
Ambition to a loftier, truer plane, 

Where honor, fame and love, greet that proud van 
Triumphant, and the black'ning, damning surge 
Rolls back, and manhood claims its sway again ? 



SONNETS. 105 



XXVII. 



EPIGRAM. 



I heard a hard and cruel man once say — 
One who had spent his life in gain of gold, 
While with one hand he of his wealth untold, 
Seemed lavish to the poor, the other's play 

Upon the widow's meagre purse hard lay. 
Secure in luxury and scheming bold, 
Gave not a thought of how her deep tears rolled, 
And wrung from her the pittance saved away ; — 

I heard this man say to the youths around. 
Be just, and to the needy freely give, 
And it shall be tenfold returned to you ; 

Which meant: to Mammon's shrine be firmly bound. 
Heed not the heart, and you shall surely live 
Honored by all, despised by self — your due. 



I06 SONNETS. 



XXVIII 



APOLLO SCORNED. 



Fair girl, why now Apollo, joyful, shun, 

Or slight the muse whom Bacchus loves to crown? 

When mirth and joy with gayety can drown 

All sadness though by gloomy care begun ; 
Who thrilled Terpsichore, the maid that won 

The hearts of many an age with flowing gown 

And grace inimitable, as adown 

The avenues of pleasure gaily run. 
To him, then, turn thy accents, soothing, mild, 

There linger with him in his shady bowers ; 

Delight awakened with his harp will fill 
Thy breast with transport, feeling doubly wild. 

And often help thee to beguile the hours 

When loneliness seeks to depress the will. 



Sylvan. 



ELYWOOD. 

This is the regal season of the four; 
The air is laden with the breath of flowers, 
And myriad bees hum round the honey'd cells 
Of thistle and of clover. Noiseless still, 
Flitting- from bloom to bloom, the butterfly 
Feeds on the dainty sweets, but hoards no store 
Against the coming storms of winter months — 
Bright, thoughtless things, that glad the gazing eye 
A moment, and are gone. 

Beneath the pines, 
I lie and muse and watch the scene outspread 
Alternately ; each hath its subtle charm. 
Now, while I look, my errant fancy strays 
Far from the wood and placid stream close by ; 
And oft in strange rebellion would assume 
Control of sight that leads it back to earth, 
For here is beauty it were mockery 



1 10 SYLVAN. 

For man to shun. Nature has been lavish; 

From the high cliffs where cling the grappling pines, 

Down to the mirror'd rocks and swaying reeds, 

All must delight and satisfy the soul 

Of him who worships in these sylvan shrines. 

Beyond the river stretch the verdant meads, 

Whereon the kine are grazing ; silence sways 

A tyrant sceptre, for no sound is heard. 

Save when a plaintive low at intervals 

Comes from the meadows, yet no discord this, 

But seems a tone in nature's harmony. 

To me these are familiar haunts and loved; 

Their every path is known, each shady glen. 

Where sunshine dares not come; the warmest slopes. 

Where bloom the earliest flowers, ere winter's snows 

Have scarcely gone, and first the violets 

Ope their blue eyes to feel the light again, 

And the anemones star all the sward. 

Till Autumn paints her fleeting colors here. 

And leaves the knarled trunks naked to the wind. 

Each tree, each gray and moss-grown rock; the vines 

That droop in graceful festoons from the boughs — 



ELYWOOD. I I I 

Whereon bright Ariel might swing and watch 
The silvery moon — the thickets by the stream, 
Where bends the light witch-hazel o'er the bank ; 
Each feathery fern and spray of golden-rod, 
That summer strews so lavish, seem as friends, 
And in their silence speak with words as clear 
As ever fell from tongue of eloquence ; 
But, most of all, upon yon towering hill, 
Pine-covered and rock-riven, I could look 
And dream away a life. What tales the winds — 
Ceaselessly sighing through their deep, dark, shades — 
They tell, as year by year goes round, and still, 
Changeless amid change, they ever stand ! 

Oft have I started from some reverie broke 
By laughter ringing through the quiet woods, 
And strained my eyes to catch the sight of nymphs 
Sporting in these retreats, as the old legends tell 
Of fair Arcadian groves ; but naught could see 
More than some thoughtless children by the stream, 
Unawed by their own echoes ; for no more 
The wood-gods haunt the forest as in days 
When life was still untrammeled by the laws 



112 SYLVAN. 

Which strive to fashion all by one set mould, 
And leave no nature in the man. In vain 
Ye look for shaggy Pan and his gay train 
Of jolly bacchanals; no more you hear 
His reedy syrinx, flute-like, echoing now. 
And see the wild dance in the shady glades ; 
And fawn and satyr all have disappeared. 
Those days are past — the golden, glorious days 
Of legend and of myth. Yet he who loves 
The forests and the streams with true devotion 
Longs for this age again, which ne'er will come. 
With all its beings of the border world, 
That lived in fountains and in gloomy caves, 
And peopled every grove with forms poetic. 

Ye marvel at the art this age produced. 
Its marble temples and its palaces ; 
Its statues, God-like in their majesty, 
And all the fragments that the centuries 
Have spared from countless devastating wars 
And their barbaric pillage ; yet the page 
Of history is plain. They sought not wealth, 
But beauty ; striving to realize in form 



ELYWOOD. 113 

The pure ideal of exalted mind, 

Unbiased, warped not by a culture false, 

And that penurious grasping after gold 

Which fawns to folly and crude patronage. 

Not art alone, but perished with it here, 

The grand old epics of heroic song, 

Not less in simple dignity and power. 

And they who sought for truth renouncing life, 

To gain such feeble light as slowly comes 

From meditation and self-abnegation — 

Buddh, Socrates, his true disciple, Plato, 

Zeno and Aristotle ; scarce less than these, 

In later age, Mahomet — all are names 

The world must reverence till the end of time. 

Long centuries must lapse ere spirits bold 
And high as these shall rise, and once again. 
Reclaim the world from its desponding way. 
When avarice is surfeited, and wealth 
Is weary of its gaudy ostentation — 
Vainest of all delusions — and luxury 
Has shaken off effeminating robes. 
And the tired earth shall pause for rest again, 



114 SYLVAN. 

And mind take up the sceptre swayed by gold, 
Teaching mankind to follow Nature's ways 
And seek its truths ; renouncing a false life 
As it would spurn a false god from its faith. 
Till such a state the future nations claim, 
Nor art nor deep philosophy can reign. 



But I have wandered ; and the trackless ways 
Where meditation strays through the dim past, 
Now hazy with its many centuries, 
Dealing with forms long perished from our life, 
Are not so clear to me as the cool woods, 
Where every path is known. 

Here, oft alone, 
I come when the harsh, grating world would weigh 
Too heavy on the heart, and bruise the springs 
Of feeling. Lying here, I can forget 
All save the beauty of the scene below — 
Its soothing stillness and the peaceful hours — 



ELYWOOD. I I 5 

And yet, the city with its busy throng, 
Is scarce a bow-shot from this shady bank, 
And through the vista of the winding stream 
The gray church-spire is outHned on the sky. 

July, 1885. 



Il6 SYLVAN. 



GATHERING ARBUTUS. 

I. • 

O, what can equal a bright day in Spring, 

A drive to the mountains when Winter has fled 
Like a white-whinged phanton, or echoes that ring 
Through the groom of the forest and fill us with 
dread ; 
When Nature comes forth from her drear hiding 

place, 
Free and smiling once more from a snowy embrace ; 

When the streamlets that play in the rugged ravines, 
Leap with unfettered grace to the valleys below, 

As with innocent wonder inquiring the means 

That had loosed them, ice-bound, and made them 
to flow 

With merrier song from their high rocky home. 

Like children set free in wild-wood to roam. 



GATHERING ARBUTUS. I 1/ 

When the mist gathers soft o'er the far distant hills, 
Till they blend with the sky in obscurity dim — 

And with dreamiest beauty the whole landscape fills ; 
When the wind murmurs soft through the pines 
dark and grim, 

Then seek silent nature, her lone, shady haunts. 

Where wild flowers grow nor vain fashion flaunts. 

II. 

When fair Aurora scarce yet had oped 

The roseate gates of dewy morn, 
And Phoebus shining from the East had hoped 

To gladden earth with day new born, 
All where prepared to leave the city's bounds 
To revel in sweet nature's rounds . 

Such bright young faces beaming with delight. 
Eyes sparkling in their very happiness ; 

Warm, glowing heart's love ne'er could slight 
If tempted far by their own loveliness — 

For they, too, wore the spring-time beauty. 

And youth had crowned them with his gayety. 



Il8 SYLVAN. 

We now had reached the rugged woodland, 
Had reached the mountains wild and budding 

To life their branches rough and grand, 

And trunks that through long centuries standing, 

Storms born from northern seas had braved, 

And winds that throug-h their boughs fierce raved. 



We paused by the spring from the hill-side flowing, 
On the green mossy bank we there sat down. 

Where nature, solemn, silent, throwing 
O'er all her sadness, seemed to drown 

All merriment within her stillness, 

And our light hearts in thought depress. 



III. 



The hawthorn buds just opening lay, 

Like snowflakes on the half bare limbs, — 

Which spring, forgetful of the day 
Had left alone, nor beauty dims — 

And golden-rods were waving by the streams 

Bright sceptres of the nymphic realms. 



GATHERING ARBUTUS. I 1 9 

The dreamy dogwood blossoms spread 
Their pale, soft petals in the light, 

And where the path by the water led, 
The lilies there, yet hid from sight, 

Were sending up their leaves to be 

Borne on the waves so gracefully. 



But fairer still than these, by far. 

Half hid beneath its leaves of green — 

Where mossy rocks its charms would bar — 
The sweet Arbutus flower is seen ; 

So modest, yet so beautiful it lay 

Down close to earth in clustering spray. 



I almost shrank from robbery 

Which seemed so cruel and unkind, 

When it was striving willingly 
Earth to adorn with life refined — 

The wild and barren heath to dress 

In simple, graceful loveliness. 



120 SYLVAN. 

I, bending down, would pluck the flower 
From many a crevice out of sight, 

While Vera, standing near, the dower 
Within her dainty hand clasped tight. 

Burst forth in admiration wild, 

And tighter pressed the captive mild. 



And as she thanked me in delight, 
Her rapture caring not to hide,- 

Or blush that came in rosy might 
Upon her fair young cheek, or tide 

Of pleasure flowing fond and free, 

All whispering love so innocently. 



Not far below us in the marsh, 
Jack-in-the-pulpit sternly stood, 

And loud he preached in numbers harsh 
To dreamy list'ners of the wood ; 

The oak-tree nodded its assent, 

While hemlock wondered what he meant. 



GATHERING ARBUTUS. 121 

And such a man in such a dress ! 

I know not yet his theme or text, 
Nor what great truth sought to express ; 

How long he talked or what came next, 
All were unheard, for what cared we 
Both bound in love so happily. 

The sun sank low behind the ridge ; 

The shadows lengthen'd o'er the plain ; 
And far away a golden bridge 

Seemed linking hill and mount again. 
While all below lay shadowy 
And lost to color's varied play. 

We wander'd back, the party gained, 
And homeward then again we started, 

While merriment through forest reigned 
And Flora from her haunts was frighted ; 

The gloomy pine-trees sighed — farewell ! 

And dreamy woods their echos swell. 

Gettysburg!!, Pa., 1879. 



122 SYLVAN. 



THE ADVENT OF SUMMER. 

From tropic climes resplendent with the sun, 

Thy gilded, glittering car rolls swiftly on : — 
The herald of bright days and season born 

For southward, where forever cease to dawn 
Sweet nature's verdant forms and brightest hues 

And like an odor breathed from Indian isles, 
Rich with the balmy breath of spicy dews. 

Thou comest to us, O, season of fair hopes. 



THE poet's path. 123 



THE POET'S PATH. 

The silent woods whose shadows now invite 
My straying steps from highway's dust and Hght, 
Can teach me more than peopled city's hosts, 
Or all the learning that a century boasts. 

The trees, the rocks, the grass, the bursting flowers. 
And e'en the solitudes, the gloomy bowers 
Of interlacing boughs and clambering vines, 
Speak each their language if the soul inclines. 

The lofty mind is most alone when in 
The whirl of multitudes, the ceaseless din 
Of jostling commerce and the bustling mart, 
Where contemplation has but ill a part. 

But wind and wood and undulating plain— 
The star-illumined vault, the battling main 
That beats with fury on a rocky shore — 
Are sympathies, like friends long loved of yore. 



124 SYLVAN. 

But hard the fate, gloomy the hostile path 
That he must lead, and brave the ignorant wrath 
Of ingrate foes whose souls are naught but clay, 
And stupid, beast-like, stand and hoarsely bray. 

Envy, her dread companion, sullen Hate, 

By his advancing footsteps lie in wait, 

To hurl foul calumny upon his deeds, 

Nor caring aught how deep his nature bleeds. 

Then what is homage, what is earthly fame 
That man should strive to win himself a name ? 
And woo the muse to aid his heavenward flight, 
And build his name above oblivious night? 

O, better far, the days of peaceful love, 

Than toil and struggles that will joyless prove. 

And fill youth with unrest and aging care 

When life should know naught but the pure and fair. 



NATURES FREEDOM. 125 



NATURE'S FREEDOM. 



Who ever drank from crystal founts that gush 
From mountains wild, where calm and hush 
Spread over all the spirit of their rest, 
And thirsts for stagnant draughts with former zest? 



Who in the freedom of his humble state 
Longs for the splendor of the gilded great ? 
And pines away in sighing for the place 
That epmty fashion fills but to disgrace ? 



Who ever felt the fire of burning love 
Thrill to his touch, and farther cared to prove 
The callous hearts that would disdain its ways, 
Prefering self, and lone secluded days ? 



126 SYLVAN. 

Who on the deep, mysterious wave of song 
Hath felt his spirit mount above the throng, 
And hurried where the restful shores unfold, 
Looks back with longing for the greed of gold ? 

Ambition has its fire which naught can bind, 
And rules the heart with eyes to justice blind, 
And sated not with conquest on each shore, 
Consumes itself, more wretched than before. 

There is no more than this, to be content, 
And let the mind be always upward bent ; 
No matter where the path, each leads to truth, 
And gives pure peace when age succeeds to youth. 

Then seek no more ; not all the fabled joys 
That sensuous Cyprus in her rites employs, 
Nor Daphnean groves that woo with wanton sight, 
Can him estrange who once has felt its might. 



MORN. 127 



MORN. 

O, thou resplendent morn ! 

Being of light and joy supreme, 

O, how the earth as from a dream, 
Greets thee as thou adorn 
The hills from darkness born, 

And up the sky thy glories stream ! 

Each fiery, gleaming light 

That burns in the dark sky, is led 
To rest where night has quickly fled, 

And all her gloomy might — 

In swift and sure affright — 

Vanishing as thy beams outspread. 

How sweet the songs of birds 

That greet the tranquil morn now breaking! 

And roseate nature from her sleep awaking ! 
The distant low of herds ; 
The belt that brightly girds 

The East, its joyous way betaking ! 



128 SYLVAN. 

The wild fowl startled in the brake, 

Sends forth its long shrill cry and hastens 
To North-land where the dim, cool glens 

Of sombre pine-trees, take 

The deep reflected lake 

Within their dark impenetrable fens. 



The mist along the river 

Gleams with the light of rising beams, 
And like an airy flood now seems 

To hang above and quiver 

All radiant, and ever 

To wane along the murmuring streams. 



The bellowing herds, the hills 

All sparkling with the dew, eager 
They climb, as if to greet more near 

The rising orb that fills 

Forest and vale, then dwells 

In glory while the worlds revere. 



MORN. 129 

What joy to some lone heart, 

Saddened by grief or disappointed 

Hopes, thou bringest, though peace has fled, 

As brightly, quickly dart 

Thy red beams in the Orient apart, 
Illumining their lives so dead ! 



130 SYLVAN. 



NATURE HEALETH; 

Can the tired heart ever find 
Full companionship in mind, 
That shall quiet all unrest 
With the noblest and the best ? 
Can the lore of ages stay 
Longings for a purer ray, 
That shall fill the soul with peace 
Give to earthly cares release ; 
All-sufficient, filling all 
Though the direst ills befall ? 
Vain one, no. Learn this as truth ; 
Nature can alone lost youth 
Reinstate in care-worn breasts. 
Why not heed its kind behests? 
Delve down deep or upward soar. 
Beauty find unknown before : 
Music poets never wrote 



NATURE HEALETH. ^S^ 

Gushes from the songster's throat ; 
Breaks upon the morning air 
Melodies no transcript bear, 
And will raise thy burdened heart 
Out of grief and sorrow's part. 
Walk into the star-lit morn 
Ere the sun— the Orient-born— 
Scatters all the sparkling dew, 
Read its lessons ever new- 
Older than the ages primal 
And the wheeling orbs coeval. 

Every leaf and blade of grass 

Strives to whisper as you pass. 

Alchemy of life and death — 

And their restoration hath 

Here embodied every change. 

In the elemental range. 

None my secrets ever know 
Who the world will not forego, 
And the hermit in his cave 
Will excel the grasping slave. 
I will teach you, sayeth she, 



132 SYLVAN. 

If alone you follow me ; 
No divison I will take, 
Full surrender you must make ; 
Walk with me and clasp my hand, 
I will close the magic band, 
And intuitive will teach 
Wondei-s that no art can reach ; 
Unseen lips will whisper thee 
Of the spheric mystery, 
And the eternal course of things 
Tending to concentric rings ; 
How each swaying pine and oak 
Form in part this cosmic yoke ; 
How the lowliest thing of earth — 
Like the proudest hath its birth ; 
As the change eternal goes 
Each from out the other flows — 
All dependent, all depend, 
One must to the other lend ; 
And no conflict here is found, 
Merging and emergent round. 
This I teach to all who come 
To the groves and silent roam, 



NATURE HEALETH. I 33 

And will add the poet's tongue 
That my promptings may be sung. 
Woo the world no more for rest, 
I will show thee what is best, 
And infuse thy soul with love 
That no earthly change can move. ' 



134 - SYLVAN. 



LIGHT. ' 

I. 

The morning breaks ! and lo, from out the gates 
Of purple Orient, the god of day 
Bursts forth in gorgeous, flaming panoply ! 
His light no sluggish slumberer awaits, 
But mounts from lowly wood to highest peak 
Dispelling gloom and strengthening the weak. 
O'er fields of waving grain and streams and lakes, 
Illuming worlds, his kingly way he takes, 
And pausing not until his labors done — 
His mission ended and his course is run — 
Then dying on the ocean's foam-tossed breast 
Invites the weary to repose and rest. 

II. 

The poet speaks ! and lo, from out the soul, 
A flood of song bursts forth like minstrelsy, 
And many a burden'd heart's made glad and free. 



LIGHT. 135 

The passions soften, and the far off goal 
Of high endeavor seems within the reach — 
And truely, too, if seer's words can teach — 
Of lowest destiny and humblest power ; 
This to the ages is his princely dower ; 
Beauty and light, and hope and consolation — 
Nor is stern Truth allowed emancipation — 
All nature does him homage for he leads 
Mankind to higher life and nobler deeds. 

Gross matter cannot feed our very life — 
The soul — for lust and hate and deadly strife, 
Displace the good within if left alone, 
Nor weath, nor fame for this can e'er atone. 



Occasional Pieces, 



TITUS LIVIUS— A REQUIEM. 



Written for the " Cremation Exercises" of the class of ^8^ at 
Pennsylvania College, June, 1880. 



O, thou of Latuim loved in ages gone ! 
When time was young, nor yet the radiant dawn 
Of centuries was clouded by dark wrong : — 
When Sappho had in Greece awoke the song 
Which echoed round her thousand isles of lore ; 
When Aneas, his wand'rings just before, 
The great Cis-Alpine bard had sounded far, 
And mingled with the din of Eastern war 
Which lighted Troy with many a blazing ship, 
Till god like Hector passed from lip to lip, 
And Grecian warriors and their deeds sublime 
Were heard in every age, in every clime ; 
And highest honor to their names was owned, 
And heros with immortal gods were throned ; — 



I40 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Then thou arose, O, CHo, sacred muse, 
And taught the Roman thy exalted use ; 
Taught him the story of his nation's birth, 
Its rise, its progress, battles, wars, and worth. 
From that far time when he from Ilian flames 
Trough Aegean sea, had fled to Latin realms, 
Bearing the household gods remembered still 
'Mid war's dire fortune, to the sacred hill ; 
Till Dursius from Italian power was torn, 
And Roman arms beyond the Rhine were borne. 

We kneel, O, muse, before thy altar low, 
With hearts bowed down, and spirits that aglow 
With joy and youthful vigor follows fast 
Through every scene and deeds which are the last ; 
We own, great Jove, thy most exalted power. 
The fate's decree, nor urge thy wrathful hour 
With speed to come. 

In Tempe's lovely vale, 
From Ossa to Olympus' height, the wail 
Of sorrow rang, for here Apollo lone 
Had come ; the god in deep dejection thrown 



TITUS LIVIUS — A REQUIEM. I4I 

His favorite haunt once more had visited, 

For thither had his sorrowing- footsteps led. 

And now his lyre had tuned ; the chords were wrung, 

With quivering hand ; a mournful dirge was sung 

For him whom Clio loved and early taught 

How to narrate great deeds with valor fraught, 

In days when Rome her greatest glory knew, 

And Art and War their blended roses strew 

O'er fair Italia, 'till the Parian mines 

Brought forth their matchless gods in southern climes, 

To grace the land, the wonder of the age ; 

And Scipio, the victor and the sage 

Paraded Rome in grand, triumphal show. 

And through the streets pressed eager crowds to 

know 
Of conquests on the Carthagenian shore. 
And rose a shout unknown to her before. 

When his last notes were hushed, the echo 
flown, 
And he with nature there was left alone — 
Bright Phoebus with his gilded chariot sunk 
Beneath the far Atlantic's wave, still drunk 



142 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

With splendor where the light had lingered still; 
His trembling fingers struck a grieving thrill, 
And as it fell upon the Penean wave, 
The dying murmur found its only grave 
Upon the ocean's broad and troubled breast. 
Where this sad strain was drifting, slowly, blest 
With its escape from such a scene. The tress 
Along the bank unmoved by the breeze, 
Bowed down until they touched the water where. 
The gathering shades had turned to blackness there. 
Its gleaming spray. 

Such was the ancient song 
That told the grief of gods, the muse's wrong, 
When he who now before us on the pyre 
First fled from life and all its fond desire, 
To sail upon the gloomy Stygian lake 
Till dawn should with its brightest lustre break 
Upon the Islands of the Blessed, clear. 
And hail the unknown shore with joy more near. 
This was the golden age of Roman power. 
That knew no bounds, and to the latest hour 
Both song and story give immortal praise : 



TITUS LIVIUS — A REQUIEM, 1 43 

Then she her grandest triumphs sought to raise 

In marble palaces ; and yet has towered 

The CoUiseum with such beauty dowered, 

That now the moofi-beams all the night watch play 

Through rents in this vast ruin, where the gay 

Throngs of Rome met to witness scenes inhuman ; 

When victors by the rites of war's dire plan 

Brought home the spoils of battle from the Rhone, 

And captives from the Danube, who alone 

In tjie blood-stained arena lions fought 

Mid cheers that echoed round her walls, bought 

By him, torn from his native land and free. 

Thus butchered for Rome's high festivity. 

And such it was ; so if the pilgrim halt 

Within its desolation, deem it no fault 

If he be tempted to digress, in praise 

And admiration, soaring to heights that raise 

Its glory and its shame above the dust 

Where its far-reaching arches with the rust 

Of time have crumbled. 

Why should we not bear 
This offering to the gods, and with the glare 



144 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Of torch and flame, light up the nightly sky, 
Wafting to regions of infinity 
This wanderer of our youth mid classic lore, 
Where oft ambitious feet have trod before 
Seeking the paths of glory ? 

One moment 
Let my sad theme a various thought augment ; 
One moment let it turn to those who long, 
Have hand in hand the Gallic, grievous wrong, 
Together plodded through, and Virgil's lay, 
*' Arms and the man I sing ;" and here to-day 
Have triumphed in the grandest fight of all, 
And witness now this last and final fall, — 
May each endeavor meet reality. 
And thy ambitions, hopes of bright futurity, 
Life's noblest work engage ; and now farewell ! 
Bright, happy scenes ; ah, who can tell 
The pangs that long may linger in the heart. 
Where first we feel, how soon from all to part. 



AMBITION. 



145 



AMBITION. 

Youth yearns for greatness as the bee, 
By winter's storms incarcerate, 

Sighs for the spring-time to be free 
And summer blossoms all too late. 

Beneath the rustic's homely garb 

The mind oft mounts beyond its sphere, 

And toil and care but form a barb 
To urge endeavor from the rear. 

Scorn not the poor ; they labor best- 
Though humble be their station here. 

And pride would grind them in the dust-- 
Who serve with patience, deaf to fear. 

But they who fire sedition's pile 

With envious hearts and lawless hands- 
Disowning right and truth the while, 
Can never rise where honor stands. 



146 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



THE FALLEN. 



The moths eat the ermine, and the world kisses the leper on 
both cheeks," 



O, lift them up — the helpless ones — 
They are not wholly lost but fallen ; 
And would the hand that always shuns, 
Reach to their depth, the life begun 
In infamy's revolting way, 
Might still be rescued ere the cloud 
Of sin o'ershadow all its day, 
And death alone and misery's shroud 
Be all that's left to save them from the crowd. 

In pity stay the scorning tongue ! 
Know ye the grief they inward bear ; 
How agony's hot tears have wrung 



THE FALLEN. I 47 

Their hearts though lost to all that's fair? 
Let him first fling the stone whose deeds 
Know not reproach, nor from the path 
Has strayed where willing pleasure leads ; 
How great the mercy, small the wrath 
Would then encounter those who heedless hath ! 



Help them to rise to honor's place ; 
Help them to gain what they have lost. 
Perhaps the wretchedness ye trace 
Is but the price that passion cost, 
That gushed from feeling's deepest fount, 
And yielding to its soothing thrill, 
Forgot the height it had to mount — 
Forgot the sovereign power of will — 
In that wild clasp which to release would kill. 



Too deeply human ! Ah, the fault 
So few can share with self and soul 
Shut in hard breasts, who never halt 
Nor look behind upon the goal 



148 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

The outcast follow driven down 
From deep to deeper Infamy ; 
And who can blame them if they drown 
Their woes, their deep despondency 
In suicidal act, — they would be free. 



Think you the cold and scheming lives, 
That circumspect with godly mien, 
Parade in every walk that thrives. 
And fawn and flatter when they're seen. 
But in the secret, sacred way 
Of home and calm domestic joys, 
Stab in the dark, the traitor play 

, To every impulse love alloys, 

Each sympathy and feeling strife destroys ; 



Think you their lot an envied one ? 

Deem not their sin, their crime less deep 

Because the evil that is done 

Goes not into the street to weep. 

Not less the trampled heart will bleed ; 



THE FALLEN. I 49 

Not less will outraged feeling spurn 
The venomed tongue whose envious greed 
On all its blighting breath would turn, 
Blind to all right where justice should discern. 



These are the assassins of the heart ; 
No outward, open foe that scorn 
Deceptions ways, the coward's part; 
But lurking in the quiet morn 
Of confidence, sow frightful tares 
With hand so fair and purpose kind 
That naught of its low object bares 
To trusting, unsuspecting mind ; . 
Yet what a harvest shall the future find ! 



Lone, barren hearts from which no more 

Spring trust's sweet flowers that charm the sight. 

But fade upon a hostile shore 

Where every whisper in the night. 

And each caress, is feigned love 



150 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Schooled in deceit but to betray ; 
Ah, when I think that such should thrive, 
Doubt will arise and question free : 
Which are the fallen, which have strayed away ? 

And still they bow the knee to Baal, 
With homage that a slave would spurn, 
Nor ask will retribution fail 
Secure upon the course they run. 
O, wretched, self-deluded soul, 
Still one tribunal yet remains — 
The mind its terrors will unroll ; 
Remorse consume what malice gains, 
And self-loathed life wreck envy's cherished fanes. 



ALICE. 151 



ALICE. 



" I had rather live and love where Death is king, than have 
eternal life where love is not." 



She's gone, they say, as some sweet flower 

That made earth smile like Eden's bower, 
Till we forgot the winter's storm, 

Forgot that grief, in one short hour, 

Could blast our hopes so fond and warm, 
And shroud in death that fairest form, 

Not made for earth, but Heaven's dower. 

O, who can tell what feelings rise, 

What throes of grief, what yearning sighs 
With her dear name are breathed in vain ? 

What words can speak, what suppliant eyes 
Can half portray the minds long train 
Of hope and fear, of joy and pain? 

The angels weep when nature dies. 



152 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

We miss thee as the genial day — 
When sunshine flooded all our way — 

That's followed by the icy storms 
Of winter, night and gloom and gray ; 

Whose influence no longer warms 

The apathy of our cold forms — 
A warmth and beauty lost for aye. 

The snow that falls upon thy mound, 

And shrouds thy lovely image round, 
Is but an emblem of thy soul 

In purity to softly bound. 

O, who could dream that fate would roll, 
With chilling hand from utmost pole. 

Such floods of grief ? All hopes are drowned. 

For him to whom thy upward flight 
Brings deepest care and lonely night, 

Our strongest sympathy is moved. 
O, friend, good cheer ; this sorrow's blight 

Time will atone, and she thou loved 

Will reappear to thee bereaved, 
In those frail forms of love's young light. 



ALICE. 153 

And in their lives not long begun 

There is a hope, a joy not won 

Unhedged by care, for here our Hves 

Find a soft echo, as the sun 

When faded in the west, still shines 
In the pale moon — one flower fades, 

Another lovelier blooms agrain. 

c5 



154 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



MEMORIAL DAY. 



I strew no flowers upon the dead to-day ; 

Can human valor sink with human clay ? 
Their deeds remain — all that they gave 
For liberty, no earthly grave 

Confines or fetters, for the patriot soul 

Surrendered not th' immortal with its dole. 



And as the years go on, and History's tree 

Spreads its broad limbs from gulf to either sea — 
And peopled millions fill the lands 
Now ravaged o'er by savage bands — 

Each blow, each life that freedom's cause can 
claim, 

Shall from the nation draw increasing fame. 



MEMORIAL DAY. I 55 

The heart must hold the sacred memory, 
Else rites prescribed are hollow mockery; 

No beauty lend nor lessons teach 

That will to future ages reach, 
If minds ungrateful to the debt they owe, 
Seek to dismiss it by a flaunting show. 



And still, this outward homage that is given, 
As long as tears from widowed eyes are driven. 

Cannot amiss be ever deemed; 

But truest honer never streamed 
From martial drums and wreaths that quickly fade, 
And festal garb that follows in parade. 



This must not be ; the nation that's reborn 
From war's fierce womb, in conflict torn, 

Shall higher mount and place their names 
Beyond what chance and change assumes; 
And Plymouth will with Jamestown then unite, 
And Liberty build altars on each site. 



156 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

I strew no flowers ; the heart when feeling most 
Would not its grief and reverence lightly boast 

In emblems that from custom start ; 

And though this day be set apart, 
It seems more fit for me, if in my song 
I help one mind, aspiring, from the throng. 



1885. 



BYRON. 157 



BYRON, 



He touched his harp and nations heard, entranced. 

—Pollock. 



O, bard immortal, if thy ill-starred life 

Was not conformed to this most rigid world; 

If thy impetuous soul was ever rife 

With warring doubts, daring to speak what hurl'd 
The malice of an envious time unfurl'd 

Upon thy brow sublime, fair genius to enshrine 

Her brightest gem — from country self-exiled. 
Wandering in every land — sought thee alone; 

We can forgive thy faults, thy gifts so brightly shone. 

Thine was a burning, ever restless spirit, 
Seeming as if Prometheus had inflamed 

Thee, too, with heavenly fire, and boldly sent it 
Glowing through thy every line ; and unreclaimed, 
The wild torents of thy soul — nor ever chained — 



158 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Burst forth from their deep source unceasingly. 
Yet shall we look beyond thy life defamed ; 

Beyond the clouds that hang so blightingly 
Causing their gloom to gather o'er thy verse, 
"^ Like some foreboding spectre, though unseen, 
Sapping thy life, yet felt the doubly worse ; — 

Justice will come and save thy honor's sheen. 

Dying at last for liberty and right, 

Greece holds thee ever as her cherished son ; 

Though thy clay rests not on her ancient site — 
Nor monument points to the good there done, 
And the heroic spirit of the race is gone — 

When freedom's name is whispered by the bold, 

Thine shall have power, e'en as the dead of old. 



BANQUET SONGS. I 59 



BANQUET SONG. 

Let the dear old time's we've spent 

Mid these honored halls, 
Be recalled with glad content, 

As the lamp-light falls 
Softly o'er this festive scene, 
Filled with pleasure, joy serene. 

Cho.—\i^\\. hail! This glad to-night! 

Let our hearts join with delight — 
Banquet, song and merriment — 
May long live this bright present. 

Bacchus is our king to-night, 

God of mirth and song. 
And we'll pledge with chalice bright, 

Friendship true and strong — 
For these moments, n'er forgot, 
Form of life its brightest spot. 



l60 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Who shall quell this flowing tide ? 

For our spirits free 
Banish trouble, cares deride, 

Mid such company; 
And again, with bursts of pleasure, 
Rings our song of gayest measure. 

May we often meet again 

In the bright To Be, 
And recall with happy strain 

Days of thoughtless glee. 
Yes, let friendship's goblet flow 
With youth's purest, sweetest glow. 

Pennsylvania College. 



NORMIA. l6l 



NORMIA. 



How dare I call from out her home of lig-ht 
The muse of song to grace this humble flight? 
This simple tribute to a name unknown, 
Save from the lips of those who spoke alone 
The eulogy oi tend'rest hope and praise, 

And came with willing feet to place with love 
Their off 'rings on the shrine of friendship's days, 

The last, but sad devotion life can prove. 

A stranger's hand essays what friends would write. 
And through the gloom and mystery and night, 
That shrouds the form wrapped in eternal sleep, 
Would send this little hope-song of the deep. 
Nor silent sympathy he feels for all 
On whom may rest the shadow of death's pall. 

The world's philosophy, the cynic's sneer. 
Ne'er poured a balm upon the sorrowing heart. 

When all is lost that's held of earth most dear, 
Nor caused from pity's eye a tear to start. 



1 62 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Perhaps he, too, had sorrows that the throng 
Gazed on unmoved — shadows that hnger long 
Upon the sunHght and the joys of Ufe — 
But buried deep beneath the whirl and strife 
Of worldly duty and the round of years, 
That call for action, not ignoble tears ; 

Yet they remain, and from the far-off past 
Are ever wakened when the chords are touched, 

E'en by another's grief — such as this last — 
That stirs the slumb'ring memory of the loved. 



The warp and woof of life with shuttles swift, 
Or slow with weary years that scarcely drift, 
Weave a strange tapistry of gloom and glow ; 
There stand the three that watch its figures grow, 
The dreaded Parcae, wrinkled, old and gray, 
That clip the threads ere half is spun away. 

They heed not hope, nor youth, nor beauty, there. 
The pictured scene though filled with rarest hue — 

What care they for the griefs we have to bear ? — 
Is stopped ere life with midway joy is due. 



THANKSGIVING. 



163 



THANKSGIVING. 

Thanksgiving! rings the welcome shout! 
Joy to our nation ! Far throughout 

Her utmost borders let it sound ! 

Thanks to our God the nation's bound 
In love again, nor war, -nor doubt 

Bids justice, truth and right confound. 



Let all the thousand birds that go 

To tropic climes from realms of snow, ■ 

Proclaim this message in their flight ; 

The Lord is king and rules with might 
Upon a princely throne below, 

Nor Liberty his altars slight. 



An hundred years have sped away, 
Of peace and wars in dark array, 



164 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

But right still triumphs and more bright 
Shines progress as our guiding light — 
That flame which lights the world to-day, 
Rose from our shoes, resplendent sight ! 

O, star of hope, to patriot heart ! 

Thy beams are fairer far that start 
From Liberty's emblazoned crown, 
Than Plead lustre of renown, 

Or those that triple Orion impart. 

Where southern skies their beauty own. 

O, never may the ship of State 
Be trusted to a hand which fate 

Has formed unhallowed ; never must 
Her guidance fall to heart of lust, 
Though mind of power and learning great 
Would hold the helm of sacred trust. 



THE FATE OF TASSO. I 65 



THE FATE OF TASSO. 

O, Italia, land of art and song ! 

Hon:ie of the muses, in thy genial clime 

Apollo lingered with his harp sublime, 
And taught great Dante there in numbers long — 
To sing as that blind poet of the Isle — 

Of Hell in epic strain we love to trace ; 

Tuned Petrarch's lyre love's purest theme to grace, 
Rienzi's friend — Rome's tribune without cruile. 



To thee, O, Tasso, yet 'twas left to sing 

Of chivalry ; Jerusalem Delivered ; 

And as thy genius shone the age revered ; 
Wealth, royalty, the court, the haughty king, 
Owned thy true worth and sought thee for their own; 

All heaped up honors, led thy ambition high ; 

The end, to take thy freedom and deny 
The fame thy pen so nobly won. 



1 66 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Deserted by the ones who praised thee most, 
The prison was thy doom, the grated cell ; 
Thy crime, the glory known to ages well. 

They thought by iron bars, that envious host. 

To confine thy great soul within their gloom ; 
To quinch the flame that shone upon the world 
In glowing strains ; their coward malice hurled 

When none were left to shield thee from that doom. 



And thou, Alphonso, name linked with scorn. 
Thy heart was barred against his suppliant song, 
Nor touched by lines which told his cruel wrong, 
But left him in his dungeon, sad, forlorn, 
Until his mind was sickened and his fancy 
, Grew dull and languid with long-wasting years ; 

Till spirits visit his sweet dreams, all fears 
Dispell, and hope returns to set him free. 

And now, Ferrara, thou art desolate ! 

Thy gorgeous palaces are in the dust ; 

Thy splendor soon forgotten with the rust 
Of time, thy beauty and thy power once great. 



THE FATE OF TASSO. 1 67 

The wandering owl at eve with wailing cry, 

Perched on some broken wall, now hoots in scorn 
The folly of thy greatness, as to warn 

The traveller from such baseless phantasy. 



When these have faded with their pomp and pride 

From earth and memory, and their high lords 
\ Forgotten save in infamy, rewards 
Will come to thee, O, bard, such as abide 
All time and change, and know not dull decay 
While song and beauty hold a sacred place 
In our short lives, and those who trace 
Thy work transcendent in a distant day. 



Tasso, on thy laureate circled brow, 

The crown still blooming in its loveliness 
With fame's sweet flowers, thy wrongs would now 
redress — 
The crown which none had worn through years till 
now, 



l68 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Since Petrarch's song rang in the hearts of Italy ; 
And while the jewels of he? kingly crown 
Grow dim in ages hence, brighter renown 

Thy simple wreath will gain, and immortality. 

'Twas thy sad lot to love beyond thy reach, 

And waste away the years in hopeless passion ; 
But not because she shunned thee ; thou hadst won 

Her deep regard ; her rank had caused the breach. 

And pride, such as high state to women gives, 
And battles with her love till it lies conquer'd ; — 
Thy softest pleadings heeded not or heard, 

But barred her breast 'gainst thee where nature strives. 



The pilgrim to great genius' reverenced shrine 
When straying in the land thy glory famed, — 
Thy fate dishonored, yet its pride has claimed- 

His tears with pity's off 'ring will resign ; 

And feeling thy deep suffering, cruel shame, ' 
Will then exclaim : O, thou great Tasso ! led 
By true ambition, the unhonored dead 

Have sought in vain to blight thy growing fame. 



LIBRARY OF CONUHtbS 

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